


Dust

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Obi-Wan Lives, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: He waits for the killing blow.It doesn't come.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 147





	Dust

Whether he was consciously aware of it or not, Obi-Wan was fully prepared to sacrifice himself when he faced Vader again. Perhaps he’d been aware of it for years; on some level, he knew his life would end by his former apprentice’s hand, and somewhere along the line, whether he knew it or not, he came to peace with that.

After nineteen years watching Luke grow from afar, he thought he could come to peace with anything. 

When they finally reached the Death Star  — when Obi-Wan heard the mechanical hiss of a respirator and finally faced his apprentice again  — he was ready to die. He’d spent the last nineteen years communing with the Force, completing Qui-Gon’s training. 

He exchanged blows, as Vader expected of him. He parried, mostly.

And when the time was right, when he knew Luke was ready to run, he raised his lightsaber above his head and submitted himself to the Force.

And then he didn’t die.

* * *

Luke is already being pushed onto the ship by the smuggler Han Solo when Vader takes Obi-Wan’s hand. His lightsaber hilt clatters to the floor, blade disappearing before it hits the ground. His hand, callused and tanned by the Tatooine suns, falls next to it.

He waits for the killing blow.

It doesn’t come.

Between them, there’s only the hiss of Vader’s breathing apparatus. The sunken eyes of Vader’s mask bore into his; the red lightsaber hums, its blade held carefully away from Obi-Wan’s skin. 

They’re still standing there, still staring at each other, when the  _ Falcon _ leaves.

* * *

“You’ll bring me to a cell now, I suppose,” Obi-Wan says when it becomes obvious Vader doesn’t plan to kill him. The figure before him  — more machine than man  — stays silent. Obi-Wan examines his wrist  — the stump of charred skin  — marveling at the immediacy of the pain. He’d always thought he’d learn to overcome physical sensation as he got older.

He was wrong.

Vader’s mechanical fingers closed around Obi-Wan’s wrists, clasping his left hand against the closed wound that used to be his right. Silently, he marched Obi-Wan back down the hall through which he’d come, stepping lightly over Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, over his severed hand.

It was a long, silent walk past the cells and up through the levels of the Death Star. When they stopped outside a plain, durasteel door, Obi-Wan knew exactly where they were.

He put up no resistance. He allowed himself to be led into Vader’s personal quarters.

He allowed himself to be pushed onto Vader’s bed.

* * *

Eyes closed, mind clear, Obi-Wan reached out to the Force, to the essence of life pulsing through every officer and trooper on the Death Star. 

He told himself he couldn’t feel the cold, cybernetic hands pulling his robes aside. He told himself he couldn’t feel his tunic being pushed up, his trousers being unlaced.

He told himself he couldn’t feel Anakin’s false hands on his bare thighs.

“Not like this,” Obi-Wan whispered, his hand finding Vader’s arm, his muscles weak, his entire body trembling. “There was a time … but not anymore. Not like this.”

The voice thrown back at him was not Anakin’s. It was deep and artificial  — Anakin’s words filtered through the Emperor’s vocorder. “Not as I am now,” Vader said.

It wasn’t a question, Obi-Wan knew. Vader was only mocking him. Still, Obi-Wan’s shaking fingers found the cruel edge of Vader’s mask; eyes fixed on Vader, on the brother he’d lost, he searched for the clasp.

“Let me see,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Vader’s hand came up  — not to help him, but to grab Obi-Wan’s hand and move it aside, to pin it to the mattress above Obi-Wan’s head. To hold him down.

“Fine, then,” Obi-Wan breathed, his words barely audible. “Do what you will.”

He threw his mind back into the Force and let his apprentice undress him, let those hands  — all wrong now, all cold and hard and dangerous  — caress his bare skin. 

It was all pointless now; Luke and Leia had escaped, the Master had fulfilled his purpose, and Obi-Wan was nothing anymore but dust.


End file.
